


Highschool Sweethearts

by scarlet_magnolia



Category: Diabolik Lovers
Genre: Adorable idiots in love, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Suggestive Themes, Wow, and back to cute, it starts out real cute, the first time i pair yui with a mukami who's not ruki!, then there's an explosion of Deep TM emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23330698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlet_magnolia/pseuds/scarlet_magnolia
Summary: Komori Yui is a good girl —until Mukami Yuma comes to town.
Relationships: Komori Yui/Mukami Yuuma
Kudos: 22





	Highschool Sweethearts

**Mood Music: _The Shoop Shoop Song (It's In His Kiss)_ by Betty Everett**

* * *

Komori Yui is a good girl.

She is a hard-working student and the proud President of class 2-C. By the time her teachers have entered the classroom, her materials sit organised upon her desk, her notebook is opened to her the recent blue-inked and legibly-penned notes and her peach-pink smile is widely plastered on her face, her palms clasped and her spine straighter than a rod. She keeps her hair in a silky half-ponytail and her rosary emblazoned upon her white shirt and her uniform is ironed and cleaned of any lint. She spends her Saturday with her nose glued inside her school books and her Sunday with her hands holding prayer books and passing plastic plates of the cake she baked the previous night.

Komori Yui is a good girl who always listens to her father and _would never, ever,_ wish to disappoint him with delinquent manners or low grades.

Komori Yui is a good girl —and this reputation is put to risk when Mukami Yuma comes to town.

* * *

The second she takes her orange coloured-pencil to underline the formula, she is disrupted not by Sakamaki Ayato bumping on her satchel with his foot again but by an enormous hand belonging to an enormous figure that roughly slides open the classroom's door.

"Name's Mukami. S'rry for the wait." After a stern reprimand on his tardiness and his terse attitude, he takes the seat behind her.

Preserving a steady gaze, she scrutinises his every feature, from the mayhem of hair and the flat expression to the patches on his jacket and the cigarette packet visible from the pocket of his dirty jeans.

"Page?" she jerks at the sound of him whispering so close to her ear. To her surprise, he doesn't reek of smoke and tobacco.

She clears her throat, eyes on the blackboard. "Forty-five."

"Thanks."

The bell rings for the five-minute break between classes and as she moves to collect her stuff, he startles her once more with his grotesquely huge shadow towering over her. She meets his boredom nervously and bends in a bow that is both polite —well, he is her new classmate— and helpful —well, she is Komori Yui; the most dependable student in her class. Probably, in her _whole_ grade.

"I'm Komori Yui, the Class President!" she sends him one of her renowned, Colgate-shine smiles and tries to still its brilliance when he yawns and stretches his long, long, muscled arms behind his head.

"Mukami. Yuma." He yawns again, his jaw spreading like a lion's, and when he refocuses on her tiny, tiny figure, she smiles even brighter. He appraises with an eye-over that seems far from crude but accidental —until he realises that his eyes lingered a bit too long on her lips and longer on where her skirt brushes her thighs and soon, both of them are blushing. "N-Nice to meet ya, I s'ppose."

"Y-Yeah, um, likewise." She breathes in a lungful of air, so sharply, her nostrils burn as if she inhaled acid. "Tell me if you need anything!"

* * *

Lunchtime arrives and instead of enjoying her homemade lunch in the cafeteria, Yui tiptoes in the school-yard, her lunchbox protectively against her chest and her teeth chewing on her lips. Head spinning around and around and breath coming out in a syncopated rhythm, she ensures that in the garden isn't lounging Ayato and his wild-brained ever-catcalling entourage. Whatsmore, he forbade them from whistling towards her direction and she might have felt something reminiscent of comfort at the time —only for the _Oh, So Great_ Ayato to puff his chest like a boastful peacock and claim the right to impose his hand one inch above her ass.

"What a jerk," she mumbles in an unsatisfactory tone and nibbles on a cherry tomato from the salad she had packed —her mouth twists in disgust due to the extreme sourness that borders on acidic.

The wind blows on her fringe and causes the shrubs to rustle their leaves in protest.

Or so she thought.

"Who's a jerk?"

The last thing she expected was for Mukami —six-feet-and-over— Yuma to erupt from the centre of the circular bush arrangement in a flare of leaves, soil and disinterest. Honestly? No one should blame her for screaming like a banshee.

His large, gloved hands rose to smother his ears. "What the fuck, woman? It's just a simple question, dammit!"

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to hear yer sighs and callin' someone a jerk!"

Her cheeks burn hotly in a mixture of fury and embarrassment and frustration that knits her brows together in an angry line. She breathes in once and twice and three times until she composes herself back to her regular calmness, "Alright, I see, Mukami-Kun. I'm sorry if I bothered you with my presence but to my defence, I didn't know you were here. I will leave you to your . . . things."

He appears to be tending to the garden —does the school even allow that?

She is offered no more time to ponder further when he raises his leg above the bush and lands in one gigantic step, so big, she fears the ground might break into cracks. He strides before her with his knuckles on his hips and a grimace on his sweat-shimmering face. Almost timidly, with his neck turned sideways and the sunlight on his back, he extends his hand to her.

"Uh, s'rry—sorry for that. Ya don't haf' t' answer if ya don't wanna. So, uh, we're—are we good?"

Oh. He wants to shake hands.

"Y-Yes, yes, we're, um, good," she shivers as her soft, minuscule palm collides with his calloused fingertips in a gentle handshake.

He is handsome, she notes; Mukami Yuma is all long, strong limbs and broad shoulders, his Adam's apple bobbing more pronounced with each swallow and the angles and curves in his structure mesh into a harmonious clumsiness as could be described the rest of his being —she quickly learns that he grows on his own his vegetables and that he has three brothers and that his mouth morphs over-dramatically into every intense emotion the moment might catch him feeling, either in a lopsided snarl because of boiling anger or a happy, toothy grin because of bubbling energy.

It's five minutes before break time finishes when she hears his stomach growl and presents him her leftover lunch of rice with spiced chicken and a light salad.

He looks like a kid with his tongue dangling in excitement from the corner of his lips and she is lost on her quiet giggles to notice he picked a cherry tomato.

_Oh no, he's going to kill me._

Yuma doesn't, thankfully, kill her, as he is too preoccupied in making the sourest expression she has ever seen on another human being and he proceeds to jump from the bench and cough loudly on the side, swearing madly between his coughing episodes at the expense of the cherry tomatoes.

"Don't ever buy that shit again," she winces at the unbridled proclamation and nods obediently, "the fuck, not even pigs eat that crap! What 're ya, a pig? A sow? Yeah, you are! That's it; I'm callin' ya Sow from now on!"

She watches him aiming for his pocket and fumbling within the cigarette packet, "Haa, but I already have a name, Mukami-Kun!"

"Congrats on bein' baptised like a good, little Christian girl. See if I care, Sow!"

From the packet, he fishes a small, cellophane bag full of . . . dirt? Seeds? At least he's not offering her a cigarette.

"What's that, Mukami-Kun?"

"Tomato seeds, blind Sow. And I told ya, the name's Yuma! Just that!"

"Great, you get a name and I get to be called something so awful!"

"Don't be dramatic. And get your ass up, Sow! We gotta get to class!"

* * *

She sees him again on the Sunday social when he visits her stall in the bake sale accompanied by a much shorter boy with a band-aid across his nose.

There are many things to know about the Mukami brothers. She learns that Ruki is the eldest and his work as an assistant to Sakamaki Karlheinz raised his family from the mouldy downtown apartment complex to this more affluent neighbourhood of Tokyo; she learns that Kou is the attractive third-year every girl in her class gossips about with stars and hearts in their eyes and that he cares less about the finals and more about television; she learns that Azusa is one year younger than her and Yuma and that he prefers spice-flavoured treats —so she offers him a generous amount of cinnamon-and-ginger cupcakes layered in silky cream cheese frosting.

She serves the other Mukamis sweetened coffee and fresh orange juice and plates hefting carefully-cut slices of syrupy, golden-crusted cherry pie and she has to bite her lips from giggling at the sheen on Yuma's eyes at the sight of that wonderful, gelatinous scarlet spilling around the crumbs.

No matter the various times her baking prowess has earned good-natured compliments over the years, this experience feels bizarre, unique —prototypical and she is clutching her fists as she waits on the balls of her shaking feet to delve further into the Mukamis' praises.

"It tastes good, Sow!"

"What? Hey, gimme some too!"

From the corner of her peripheral, Yui glimpses on the chattering band of church-going women with their air of haughtiness and hairspray and she might have cowered beneath their beady gazes. Cat-like yellow sunglasses, sharp as whetter shards of glass, peer down at her, at _them_ , as if the Mukamis are entities below their grandeur and holiness —as if they are _unwanted._

A hand pokes her shoulder blades. Sakamaki Reiji, dressed in the costume of a prim and proper prince, and yet, she knows his wicked smirk and his cocked brow mean anything other than brutal condemnation —his square and clean spectacles glint as if they judge her, _You're the only one capable of feeding strays._

But she is Komori Yui, a good girl, and good girls are kind and polite to all. With a pretty smile, she shoves into his stomach his reserved cup of steaming green tea and his porcelain plate of lemon cake.

"Enjoy!"

He bends close to her temples.

"With those friends of yours, I certainly will."

* * *

"So . . . what's your deal with those guys anyway?"

"Uh? What guys?"

"The Sakamaki fuck—okay, okay, don't hit me, woman! I'll call 'em what I wanna call 'em!"

She rose a brow and pursed her —very soft-looking, very plumb and very pink— lips as if she questions his braveness. He could barely dub it a _dirty-look_ without choking on his laughter (he blushed, either way).

"Yeah, well, them! You get it."

She swayed her feet in the air and he admires the sun's shine on the black lustre of her polished mary-janes. "Our fathers are friends and I've known them my whole life."

"That's a half-assed answer, Sow." He points to Ayato through the window. "What about that brat, chasin' ya around like a puppy?"

She rolls her eyes, "Nothing about him."

"He's just a jerk, right?"

She startles but he guesses easily that it's the good kind of surprise —her smiles are brighter these days, more authentic, and her shoulders aren't crestfallen anymore.

"Yeah, just a jerk."

* * *

"I'm sorry, I can't come on Saturday."

"Huh? Uh, okay. Anything urgent?"

She turns her head away from him. "Not really; my father will be having dinner with the Sakamakis and I will have to be there too."

None of them mentions it and for the remaining days, everything flows smoothly until it's Saturday, past ten in the evening, and Kou yells for him to come downstairs because Yui is at the door.

She asks him about the vegetables and fruits he cultivates and he doesn't ask why her nose and cheeks are red because he can tell, from the coarseness in her voice and her shaking fingers, that she has been crying.

"You look good in this dress, Sow." She wore pastel-pink, flowing silk and her hair ended in soft curls.

Her stomach growls; he serves her one of the lovely chicken pot-pies that Ruki had cooked and when she bit into the gravy-covered carrots and cherry tomatoes, she laughed until she cried, "They taste better than mine!"

He suggests he walks her home, "Yer father will be worried."

She is frozen in her spot, completely immovable but for the hushed breaths leaving her mouth. She jumps to him, looping her arms around his neck and resting her chin in his collarbone.

"Thank you, Yuma."

"What for?"

"I—I thought that—that being called _Breastless_ and—and _Ti-Titless_ was normal, but it's not! It's not! I thought that I could just—I could just avoid it until it stopped bothering me or until he— _until he_ stopped! If you ever liked a girl, Yuma, would you pull her hair? Would you insult her body and then try to touch her? Have you ever done that to a girl until she got so scared of you— _so scared of you_ that she wanted to run away from you? And you had to get your brothers to get her back?"

Her body is small and frail in his hands and he takes her by the waist, setting her down on a bench and rubbing his hand across her trembling back —she must be freezing, he realises and envelops her in his green-brown jacket and his arms; she is tiny enough to curl into a ball and tuck herself within the crook of his neck.

When they arrive at her house, he bids her goodnight by the white picket fence and watches her enter; a golden lamp-light flickers inside and he departs.

On Monday morning, he delivers a strong, hard-knuckled blow right on Ayato's eyes and if it weren't for Yui's hand on his shoulder like a gentle command, he would have punched the bastard until his he crushed his skull.

* * *

Mukami Yuma is a good guy.

He is passionate and righteous and never cowers in challenging injustice; the moment the adults turned away, he would run clutching a mouthful of sugar-dusted bread which he would feed to the hoards and hoards of dirt-cheeked orphaned toddlers hollering in the streets and he would do that until his teenaged leader and his leader's teenaged henchmen died in an ambush and he was sent to an orphanage where he met his brothers —it was built by philanthropists who wanted to execute their perversions on children; he grasps his skin, his tendons as if his nails are digging not onto flesh but on the soil for a grave spacious enough for him, for his brothers, for the children in the slums and she holds him steady from rocking back and forth.

Mukami Yuma is a good guy, whose big, rough fists she likes to caress and map with her fingertips because she needs to understand how such violent skin and bone can make innocent grains of life grow into beauty — _we didn't really come here 'cause of Ruki, Sow,_ he tells her and depicts her as somberly raw as he can how liberated he felt when they escaped and how deceived he was of the Real World's lack of pure humanity; _I'd rather starve again than watch Kou pulling his eye out with a fork again or Azusa suffering under sadistic children again and Ruki stressing himself until he dissolves_.

"I don't regret what I did."

"I know you don't. And you shouldn't."

The triplets walk past them and Laito doesn't even dare to wink at her. Ayato's eye hasn't fully healed yet.

"Hey, there's this play Kou's starrin' in and he invited ya too. Call yer dad, if ya want."

"I'd love to."

* * *

She didn't understand how fleeting time is until she wakes up drenched in the heat of summer and hearing her father leaving for his work overseas; since she was young, from June to the end of August, she would spend her days in the Sakamaki Manor. But now —her father's perception of the Sakamaki sons has severely changed from the image of six well-behaved princes.

"Pay them a little visit for time to time, at least."

Seeing Yuma there, working in the vegetable garden wasn't what she was expecting; with the gloves of a gardener slid all the way above his wrist, he dug deep holes in the earth to place the pin-small seeds as she trailed the beads of sweat mixed with dirt streaming down the sculpted muscles of his arms.

She wishes her sunglasses are wide enough to cover the redness rising on her cheeks —she could blame it to the sun! Yes!

"Hi, Yuma!"

"Oi, Sow! Hey!"

He had accepted the particular summer job because Ruki had forced him to —he wanted to please his boss by showing the work ethic of his brothers— and though Karlheinz himself was an interesting person, she could see how near-impossible it was for Yuma to not attack the triplets' throats.

"'Nough 'bout me; what're ya doin' here, Sow?" she's not blind to how concentrated he is on a specific spot on the column of her neck but she doesn't speak of it.

She knew from the frown in his brows that he was angry with her wandering around the premises.

"I wasn't going to stay for long but since you're here . . . ," she sounds like a parody of those flirty schoolgirls with the fruity tones and their shortened school-skirts.

Through her lashes, he seems to appreciate the subtle sway in her hips and the way her bare thighs glide together —his Adam's apple bounces in his throat and the look in his eye is a waging war between timidity and hunger.

"Since I'm here?" His voice rings throatier, deepening on guttural.

Mrs Sakamaki waves at her from her balcony; she waves back and makes her way towards the woman.

She laces her hands at the base of her spine and stops in her mid-jog to turn her neck to face him, smiling. "I'll be coming by more often!"

* * *

_Her ass is going to fuckin' murder me._

He may be oblivious but not as much as Kou enjoys taunting him —today she wears high-waisted shorts, the same colour as the pink lemonade she fills his cool glass with, and they hug her like a second skin.

And the way she looks at him, _dammit_ ; how her pupils grow bigger and blacker and more intense and _so, so fixed_ on him as if all her senses are devoted to his tousled hair, the hinge of his jaw, the gleam in his muscles —it's obvious that she is notably fond of his arms and his hands and how she tilts her neck and bites her bottom lip whenever the callouses on his fingertips find her waist.

He likes her hands as well; she is so tiny compared to his exceptional height and her hands are small and powder-soft and they both smile whenever their little fingers meet in an accidental brush.

He wouldn't mind if they could lie down on the dewy grass and look at each other —he could spend aeons and aeons with her hands weaving through his hair and his hands caressing her cheeks and her throat.

_You're a good guy, Mukami Yuma,_ she had told him once, as nonchalantly as she sipped into her strawberry milkshake.

_And you're a good girl, Komori Yui,_ he had whispered back to her, _addicted_ to the red blush that bloomed on her cheeks; her lips, perfect and plumb and pink, had parted and he could have kissed her then but he hadn't —too many eyes prying into them.

* * *

Her bedroom is too beige and pastel-pink; the walls, the desk, the lamp. Should she moderate her colour palette? Electric-violet and brilliant-rose would suit the interior —and lights! She needs to doll the shelves in wiry garlands of yellowish lights! But it's too high for her to reach . . . perhaps —Yuma could help her?

_This is exhausting._

It's too late into the night and she can't fall asleep; the room is too hot, the moon is too bright and just the thought of Yuma is _too, too excruciating_. It's been days since they went with Azusa for cheeseburgers and milkshakes in the diner where Kou works and she still can't erase the smile from her mouth; as if the muscles of her face move to their own accord and melt her mouth into a gleeful grin.

She spins, her direction upwards to the ceiling and recalling the comforting words they have shared since the beginning of the school year; she misses him. The digital clock reads _**01:23**_ in flickering, neon, square-shaped numbers and she misses him.

She wishes they could lie close together and just stare. Look at each other. She would have her arms around his neck and his hands will be settled on her waist. One single look and she's smouldering.

It drives her crazy, _addicted_ to the ache within her ribs and deep below her navel, a heat so akin to summer-scorch that nothing could soothe her but for strong friction —the superficial hand-brushes are beautiful but she longs for something deeper.

Something more _primitive_.

She's breathless, her attention drawn by the moonlit glow dancing on her lace curtains —is that a rock? _A pebble?_ What's a pebble doing in her room—another one! _Wait, what's that sound?_

The restricted expanse of her balcony is littered in pebbles —is someone in her yard?

"Sow!" A pebble collides with the metal railing, leaving a shrill echo. "Sow!"

_Yuma?_

Carefully, she spies from the corner of her curtains Yuma stumbling in the yard. "Hey, sush!" she hisses, approaching the railing, "You'll wake the neighbours!"

She doesn't discern him clearly from the shadows but he seems to be grinning. He barks out a fit of booming laughter and his arms twirl around his head without coordination. He totters forward, his limbs wobbly, and he motioned to the vines that reached the balcony railing, tugging awkwardly on the long stems —is he trying to lift himself in her room?

"Wait, wait! Stop that! Just—Just stay where you are," she guided him, her palms covering her face in resignation, "I'll open the backdoor," she mumbled, mostly to herself.

As stealthily as she could manage, she transferred a drunk Yuma in the kitchen and placed a glass of salt-sugar-and-water firmly within his fist.

He lets out a curt chortle and sips the drink, wincing in disgust and she can only imagine the ring of fire in his throat, "This shit sucks."

She pats his head, biting back a smile as his head stumbles further into her palm. "You should've thought that before getting drunk, Yuma."

He grasps her wrist and squeezes her skin, a frown darkening his brows and his cheeks fuming, "'s all _Ko's—Kah's_ —Kou's fau-fault!"

She nods, "Yeah, I'm sure. Now, finish this and stay here; I'm calling Ruki to come to get you."

"No!" he groans and throws his head back in protest, his fists banging on the table, " _Dan't—Duhn't_ —Don't call 'im! I dan't wan' 'im 'ere!"

He stands up abruptly, the chair creaking behind him, and swallows the drink in one swift gulp. He giggles, wiping his eyes and his nose and his mouth until his skin turns red.

He extends both his arms before here, one knee touching the floor and the other bent. He takes her hands in his, nestling them in the crook under his chin as she watches him nervously.

"Uh, Yuma? Are you sure about that?"

He nods stiffly and scratches his nail on her nightdress, seemingly mesmerised by the shiny sugar-pink satin, "Yer so cute, _Sah_ —Sow! And yer—yer even cuter when yar no' talkin' 'bout otha' _guhs_ —guys!" he draws his vowels in a long tune, his hands shifting to rove the curve of her thigh.

When did Yuma grab her and throw her over his shoulder as if she was a weightless sack and ride the stairs to her bedroom, Yui didn't comprehend it —she didn't scream, she didn't protest and all she could do was dangle helplessly and pat his shoulder blades.

"Ya know, Sow, I _ohll_ —always wan'ed t' do that! Yer just so cute! 'n' small!" he coos, poking her nose and pressed her cheeks roughly between his fingers as she pouted and he laughed.

His intoxicated mirth drains soon, dragging out short breaths until his mouth stretches into a wide smile, without the teeth showing. She strokes the bulging bone of his wrists and hums lowly, "You can stay here if you want. We have another room spare."

He bends, kissing the crown of her head and pulling her body to his, falling on the floor, "Yeah, I _thu_ —think I'd like that."

She brings two pillows under their heads and covers both of them with her sheets, hiding a chuckle as Yuma's fever-drunk gaze hovers on the linen flowing along with the curve of her waist, his eyes sparkling.

His thumb caresses her lower lip, parting her mouth open. "I _mah_ —meant it, Sow," his voice drops to a sleepy whisper and she inches closer, their foreheads bumping; he leaves sloppy, open-mouthed butterfly-kisses on her hair, "Yer really pretty. Really, rea _—ah_ —ally . . . "

"You're very handsome as well, Yuma."

He makes a happy noise and wraps his strong arm around her neck, "Heh! Sow t'inks 'm ha'som'! Heh . . . ye know ya should—ya should go out wit' me."

"Oh? Is that so? Where are you planning on taking me, Mister? And when exactly?"

"Uh ah, how should I kno', _wouh_ —woman? We go wherevah ya wan', I dan't _caeh_ —care!"

"Alright, don't yell, don't yell."

"Mhm. Date me?"

"Yes, I will; as long as you're not drunk."

"Mhm! _Pruh_ —Promise!"

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello! I hope you are all well and I wish to you and your families the best of health!
> 
> Some tips:
> 
> 1) Exploit the free time of the quarantine and spend more time with yourself; you might be able to leave your house freely but you have the chance to read that book you had your eye on or watch that series on your Netflix list or produce your own art and share it online! The important thing to do is relax and take care of yourself and encourage others to do the same; you don't have to do a very productive activity and you can just spend a certain amount of time in your bed, doing nothing and just listening to music, but in order to preserve yourself, remember to do a simple workout, drink lots of water and take a warm bath!
> 
> 2) Stay at home and try to not leave your house unless is to gather necessities, like medicine or food (if you can get your super-market goods purchased online and delivered to your home in your area, I suggest you do that). If it's sunny outside then take advantage of the sunlight and its vitamins (from your window, your balcony or your yard, of course)!
> 
> 3) Wash your hands in warm water for at least 20 seconds (perhaps more) but make sure you don't overdo it with the hand-washing; just because some people lived like animals pro-COVID19 and now are panicking, doesn't mean that you should follow their example! Wash your hands throughout and if you have to leave your house, then use a reasonable amount of hand sanitizer for a long-lasting cleanness. Avoid touching surfaces with your bare hands and it's advisable that you clean them with antiseptic sprays —do something similar with the devices that you use regularly, like your phone or the table where you eat.
> 
> 4) Don't panic instantly. Remember that the two basic symptoms of the virus are a stubborn fever and dry cough that might lead to harsh coughing fits —if you cough or sneeze, do so in the crook of your elbow and later wash the particular cloth you were wearing; if you sneezed on a tissue then throw it away. Eat healthy, nutritious foods (vegetables and fruits that have been washed correctly), drink warm water and warm beverages, like tea or coffee (the high temperature will warm your throat and either it might send the virus to your stomach where it will be killed or it will create productive coughs with mucus).
> 
> Ciao~


End file.
